Scott Pilgrim Versus The USA!
by Firewolf99
Summary: When the American military comes knocking, Scott finds himself fighting for love, life, and the fourth wall. Well done for clicking on this category out of sheer boredom. Here: have a fanfic!


_If you managed to find this fic, well done. This is the first in several random combination fics I am writing. Enjoy!_

_Firewolf 99 does not own Scott Pilgrim, Modern Warfare 2 or any elements from other video games referred to or used in this fic: they belong to Infinity ward, The Blokes who do Scott Pilgrim or other respective companies. He only owns a few OC's and cover names mentioned, as well as the plot for this story. _

_This is an edited version, changed due to a rather nasty accusation of xenophobia. Though the bully/troll/flamer responsible was an arrogant nitwit, his comments made me reread the story and decide, despite his rather nasty and unpleasant language (and his inability to spell or use grammar), that I needed to clarify a certain character's opinion. It also gives me a good reason to ratchet up the word count. Huzzah!_

* * *

**Scott Pilgrim vs. the United States!**

* * *

**New Game!**

* * *

**Difficulty Level- Easy. Medium. Hard. Chuck Norris.**

* * *

**Game Start...**

* * *

_A normal, winter's day in Toronto, Canada. A peaceful day. A calm day. A day for resting, and enjoying life's pleasures. A day for getting out, meeting friends, and embracing loved ones. A day for..._

"Zzzzz... eurgh...zzzzz!"

_As you can see, Scott Pilgrim is your average nerd. Well, aside from his previous adventures involving the murder of 7 evil exe's. And his way out of his league girlfriend. Like, so far out of his league, he needs a spacecraft to reach her league from his. Like..._

_Ahem. This metaphor has rather got away from me._

_Anyway, right now, having not heard from the aforementioned love interest and ex possessor of evil ex lovers, Ramona V Flowers, for at least 4 hours, he appears to have completely broken down._

"I'm just... tired!"

_From staying up all night waiting for her to come home. I know everything, Pilgrim!_

"...Who the hell are you? You're not... the vegan dude are you?"

_No. I am not the 'vegan dude'. I am... THE VOICEOVER MAN! And I have come to tell you to wake up. Your future may be in peril- not to mention your girlfriend, your yet to be conceived children and, in fact, your likelihood of ever getting laid again._

"...What?"

**CRASH!**

Scott Pilgrim stumbled out of bed, slipped on a misplaced DVD case (Teen Titans-Trouble in Tokyo, for the Easter Egg Hunters out there) and crash-landed on a pile of Mountain dew bottles and empty Maryland cookie wrappers.

**Doof!**

"Owww..." Scott stood up. At 25, he was vastly similar to himself at 24, just as similar as his 22 year image, but vastly different to his 13 year old self. Brown hair with a tuft, blue parka that had lived with him for almost as long as his sister, black shirt with a 1 up mushroom, and jeans stained with Pizza sauce. He wouldn't have looked out of place in university halls or maybe a back alley: apart from the large sword which now protruded awkwardly from the sofa, the hilt of which was clasped in Scott's hand as he struggled to extricate himself from the mountain of rubbish. The plain handle seemed worn, and was starting to mould with disuse.

_WARNING, WARNING- enemies in the vicinity._

"...Voiceover man again?"

A loud series of gunshots immediately roused the young man, as he heroically threw himself behind the sofa.

(Scott Pilgrim used flee. -2 balls)

"WHAT THE HELL!" Scott shouted as another few rounds buried themselves through the door and into the bed. Then, quiet. Until a voice called out:

"Open the door, Pilgrim, or you and your girlfriend will not enjoy the consequences..."

_Told you so_

"Who the hell are you?" Scott shouted, desperately trying to work out if there was an alternate exit to the apartment he was now renting.

(Scott Pilgrim used plan ahead. + 1 strategy. -1 balls)

In response to this question, the door to Scott Pilgrims' new apartment blew off its hinges, bounced off a wall, and knocked a newly framed picture of Scott and Ramona on the beach holding hands in the sunset off the table. Scott caught both: the frame in his hands, and the door in the forehead.

"Uuwwaa..."

(Unknown assailants used C4! Scott Pilgrim is unconscious!)

4 men moved into the apartment, crouch walking in the way that only highly trained special force men do (if you wish to detect a special forces agent, ask him to walk through a low door way. If he crouch walks, find a nuke shelter. Or at least a small puppy. Even the Mossad cannot resist small puppies.) Each carried an M4, a full face gas mask in army standard brown, full black army fatigues and green glowing night vision goggles a la Sam Fisher. They crowded round the unconscious body of Scott Pilgrim

"Mr Pilgrim, you were not even worthy of our time." One of the agents said, shaking his head. " Such a shame." He smirked behind his mask (I presume: he _was_ wearing a mask)

"Waste him."

_Is this the end for our hero? Read the next chapter for... oh, wait, this is a one-shot. Never mind!_

Suddenly, the room was plunged into darkness. The agents looked around the room, checking every corner as their training had taught them.

No-one.

"Hey, who turned out the..."

**BANG!**

* * *

(Scott Pilgrim recovered from Unconsciousness!)

"Eurgh... what the hell happened?"

"Long or short version?"

Scott's eyes flew open. He sat straight up and banged his head on the coffee table, causing him to curse out in anger.

(Scott's manliness increased to 3 points!)

His eyes immediately focused on the man stood by his sofa, although the knock to his head had blurred his vision slightly, showing only a dark blob standing menacingly above him.

(Scott is confused!)

Scott reached for the first thing to come to his hand, and pointed it threateningly at the intruder.

"Get out of my apartment!"

"Actually, this would be my apartment. And don't point a chair leg at me"

The vision cleared, and Scott could see the man sitting on the couch. Wearing black combat trousers, a black shirt and black jumper, the man was obviously a sucker for originality. A short wash of dark hair coated his head, while a thick moustache outlined the yellow teeth only slightly exposed by the man's scowl.

**Name: **Dan Larston... possibly

**Age: **30...maybe

**Occupation: **Shady, nearly unknown Landlord... he says... at the moment...

**Fun Fact: **no-one is quite sure who or what he is... we think...

Scott looked round the room, at the blown off door, the photograph in his left hand, the dented table, and the bullet holes in the sofa, door frame and windows. He then glanced back at the chair leg he was pointing at the 6ft Landlord, and the chair it had been blown off of.

"I can explain this"

"No you can't." The Landlord said evenly, as he walked towards the fridge. Opening it, he grimaced before closing it again. "No goddamn ales. Kids should stop drinking these shitty vodka fruit juices."

Scott, now awake fully, looked around the apartment again. The bathroom was empty, the kitchen empty, the bedroom empty...

"Hey, did you see where the four men who were in here before went?" Scott asked. He distinctly remembered one of them mentioning Ramona, and he was really quite desperate to learn where she was. She said she would get back at eleven that night for an all night Scrubs-a –thon (It would have been X-files, but Ramona was still avoiding them after having watched an entire series after her temporary split with Scott), and it was now 3:20 in the morning. Subspace was never late- something must be wrong and Scott was worried.

"Oh, what, you mean those guys?"

Scott turned and looked at the wall were the man was pointing.

(Disgust meter has gone up 200%)

His face turned white, his eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped, before a torrent of vomit soaked the sofa.

(Scott threw up! -3 balls! Scott's balls cannot get any lower!)

What did he see?

_It's... OH MY GOD!- WHAT THE FUCK? WHO THE HELL WOULD DO THAT? IT BURNS! I JUST WANNA RIP OUT MY EYES! HANNIBEL LECTOR'S SITTING BEHIND ME, AND EVEN HE'S COMPLAINING TO THE PUBLISHERS FOR SHOWING THIS TO UNDER 30 YEAR OLDS! AAAAAAAAAAAARRGGGH!_

"Hey!" Dan growled, "Those Sofa's cost a hell of a lot. You wanna buy a new set, huh?"

Scott turned to Dan with big, buggy eyes. Slowly swallowing down the taste of his own bile, he timidly asked, "Did you...?"

"Bastards broke a door." Dan grunted as he reached for the phone, "That was payback. Plus, kinda wanted to know why the hell they did it. Fucking Delta Force goons..."

"They were Delta Force?" Scott asked, starting to look back at the men, before remembering the horrific picture left there and looking in the opposite direction. A pause, then-

"What's Delta Force?"

* * *

_SOME TIME LATER..._

"Give. Her. Back." Scott said menacingly

_Whoops, too far. Hold on..._

* * *

_SLIGHTLY EARLIER THAN THAT..._

"So basically, Delta Force is the American answer to the British SAS and the Russian Spetznaz?" Scott said as he tried to screw the door back on to the wall.

"A piss poor answer, if you ask me." Dan said, lighting up a cigarette and sucking slowly on it, before shooting a perfect smoke ring out. "I mean, yeah, Matthew Reilly makes them look all super badarse and all, but in my opinion, they couldn't hit Nelson's column from 50 feet!"

"So what the hell do they want with Ramona? And why the hell are you making me fix the door? I should be going after them!"

Dan thumped him hard round the head. "Imbecile. How the hell can you track them if you don't know where they are? And you're responsible for the door- you gotta fix it. It's in your contract. As for **why** your lass..." Dan paused, his face turning dark, as if struggling with an inner conflict. Turning to face Scott, he found him munching his way through a pizza that looked like it had a truffle growing out of it.

"You fucking listening kid? And who told you to stop fixing?"

"Sorry Sir!"

"That's better. Now, don't ask me how I know, because that would ruin this half arsed plot, but your young lady uses the subspace to do her funky delivery work, doesn't she?

Scott gasped. "How the hell did you know?"

(Scott is now Suspicious of Dan! All Team attacks will suffer -5 damage)

Dan stared at Scott for 2 beats: then he turned back to the door, and savagely attacked his work, twisting the bolt at double the speed. Under his breath, he muttered a mantra to himself, "I will not kill tenants, I will not kill tenants, I will not kill tenants..."

"LEAVE DAVID TENNANT ALONE, YOU FIEND" Yelled Scott, the flames of fury licking at his eyeballs.

Dan looked at him, confused. He raised an eyebrow.

Scott simpered.

Dan shook his head.

"Fucking druggies."

The Landlord returned to the door, made a final screw, and stepped back. Content with the door, which remained buckled from the blast, but still functional, he turned to the 25 year old and continued, "Anyway, kid, think about it. A magical transportation device allowing you to go anywhere in the world. The possibilities for the military are endless! How the Americans learnt of it, I don't have a fucking clue, but you know those military types: give them a hint of a donut and they'll be salivating like Madonna in a Nigerian Village."

"So the Americans have got some special commando's to kidnap my girlfriend so they can use her as a troop carrier?" Scott said, raising his eyebrows. "What grass have you been inhaling?"

The man shrugged, before pointing at the bodies "Well, kind of. It's a bit more confusing than that, but... dammit, I'm not a bloody story teller!" He suddenly exploded (in anger, not in a fountain of blood and flesh. That would be just rude.) I'm a... landlord." Dan looked shifty for a brief second, but at Scott's expression, moved on hurriedly. "Anyway, that's what that bastard said. And he wasn't exactly motivated to lie..." he chuckled, "Man, he's gonna miss those tomorrow..."

"They're still alive?" Scott said, turning green once more.

The Landlord shrugged, before grabbing the kettle and setting it to boil.

"Anyway, I managed to get their headquarters out of them, but you're gonna have to move fast: they'll be heading for the border before you can say 'Get to da choppa', and if they get into America, you don't stand a hope in Purgatory of finding your lass again." He tossed Scott a piece of paper, poured the boiled water into a cup and added a tea bag.

(Scott received _Secret hideout map!_)

Stirring dutifully, Dan glanced back up at Scott, still sitting on the floor. "What the fuck are you waiting for, a motivational blow job?"

"What about the bodies?" Scott said, shivering

"What about them? You think I can't deal with some bodies?" Dan snorted, "Please! I'm... a landlord." He paused, briefly composing himself. Scott looked confused, but none the wiser, which was lucky. 'I'm not cut out for this', Dan thought, before continuing, "I'll just blame it on a hunting accident and stick 'em in a hospital. No-one'll give two hoots. Now are you going after the girl, or is she now the Army's bitch?"

Scott's expression changed. His eyes narrowed, his mouth curved into a snarl, his skin reddened and his breath came out quicker. A small growl came out of the back of his throat, echoing around the near silent room- silent, except for the tapping of Dan's spoon on the side of the glass as he casually removed the teabag and put it on the side of the sink.

(Scott's rage meter is building)

"They're not gonna touch her." Scott murmured ominously, his hand grasping for the sword, "Not if they want to live."

He stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door on its hinges and walking towards the stairs, pulling out a mobile phone as he went. As he disappeared down the steps, all Dan heard was a muffled voice muttering, "Stephan? I need some help..."

The Landlord breathed out a sigh of relief. He didn't think the Americans would _actually_ rape her, but what Pilgrim didn't know won't hurt him. He paused to check that no-one was watching, before reaching behind the counter and pulling out the object he had been concealing for the past 20 minutes. Slowly turning back to the crumpled men, he pressed his finger to his ear, and started to talk, quietly, to the person on the other end of the wire...

_And so, Scott Pilgrim sets off on his mighty quest to free Ramona Flowers! What evil awaits him in the enemy's secret lair, the abandoned Warehouse just off Maple Street in Central Toronto, just past the Lidl's? Will he ever get round to having a conversation with Ramona in this fic? Will I ever get out of this commentators box?_

* * *

(Secret Hideout: Entrance)

"Dammit," Scott groaned as he hung up his mobile again, "Nobody wants to help me. What the hell is wrong with my friends...?"

(FLASHBACK)

"GUY'''MRAMBLING..."

**Click.**

(THE PRESENT)

"Some friends they are." Scott sighed, putting his phone back in his pocket. A cough to his right hand side interrupted any further complaining, (the result of which would have been the complete failure to retrieve Ramona, the subsequent invasion of France, Brazil and the Democratic Republic of Congo by America, the replacement of President Obama with President Palin, and the end of civilised human life resulting from that ill advised move.)

"Youn... I mean, Neil! What are you doing here?"

Neil gave him a weird look as he reached in his pocket for some gum. "You left a message- something about commandos. Thought you might need a hand." Popping a capsule into his mouth, Neil chewed gratefully as the nicotine took away his craving once more.

"Yeah, but, why are you here? You said you were taking Stacey out to a restaurant on the other side of town tonight." Scott said, stroking his chin in suspicion, before whirling on Neil "Or were you doing... SOMETHING ELSE?"

Neil looked shiftily left and right and lifted one hand up to push Scott towards the open back door of the warehouse, while stealthily redoing his fly with the other. "Let's just... go inside."

(Neil joined the Party!)

* * *

"How the hell are we going to get past the guard?" Neil asked, his eyes bugging out of his sockets as he watched the patrolman walk along the warehouse foyer floor.

The aforementioned guard came in at 6ft 8 tall, 298 lbs and 300% Badass. Wearing the seemingly standard issue gas mask and black combat fatigues, his boot clad feet made a loud clunking sound when walking. He carried what appeared to be an RPG on his shoulder- though why, it would appear, an American special forces trooper was carrying a Russian weapon associated with terrorism will be lost in the annals of history for ever more, and was certainly not the result of laziness on an author's part.

Scott looked round at the surrounding location, his eye's alighted on a pair of cardboard boxes on the doorstep. On the side of the boxes read: 'Silenced Tranquilizer Guns. WARNING! Do not drop.' Scott's eyes lit up.

"I have an idea!"

* * *

"Why the hell couldn't we have used the tranquillizer guns?" Neil asked as he crawled slowly behind Scott. The boy was holding one of the empty weapons boxes over his body in an ingenious and entirely original disguise

"SSSHH! Boxes don't talk." Scott said, holding his own box above his head. "Beside's, everyone knows that hiding under a box is a stealth tradition that has lasted since the mid 1960's, pioneered by a stealth expert named _'Nude Slowworm'_. They'll never suspect us."

_Firewolf 99 does not hold the rights to cardboard box disguises. That is copyright of Hideo Kojima and Kojima Productions._

"What the hell? You do Disclaimers too?" Scott looked up at the warehouse roof.

_Some of us work for money, sunshine._

"Right, time to sneak into the enemy base, and... huh? Where did the guard go?"

It had now reached roughly 7 O' Clock in the morning, and, like most of America, the guard wanted breakfast. Despite his special forces training, he was a human male, and he smelt bacon.

It is a well known fact that bacon has incredible properties. It has been known to heal the wounded, save the blind, and even convert vegetarians back from the path of lentil-ness. It quite easily overpowered the sense of the Delta Forces guard, who had not eaten for a good 13 hours, and so he had abandoned his post and gone in search of sustenance leaving the main hanger room door both unlocked and completely open to forced entry.

Scott and Neil looked at each other, confused. Then, they shrugged, and made a break for the door.

* * *

(Secret Hideout: Balcony)

Scott and Neil looked around, perplexed at the complete lack of security on the balcony.

"Well this is convenient," Scott said, looking left and right. "They must not have expected us to come here."

Neil raised his eyebrows at the 25 year old, who was in the process of casually removing the cardboard box disguise. "You do realise they may just be hiding. Or they could have CCTV cameras."

Scott looked back at him, surprise on his face. "Neil, I never realised..."

A long pause

"Realised what?"

"That you're so paranoid." Scott dismissed, turning towards the balcony edge and walking over to the rail. Behind him, Neil sweat dropped and raised a finger to admonish the idiot who didn't seem to realise how dangerous this was when, suddenly, Scott threw himself over the rail.

Neil's eyes bugged out, his breath caught and he shuffled cautiously (still in the box) to the edge to observe what was going on.

On the floor of the warehouse, there were only four people. One was tied to a chair. One was standing over the bound prisoner, holding a knife. One was hiding behind a crate, holding what appeared to be a Sniper Rifle in his hands. And one idiot was charging the heavy set Special Force man, holding only a sword, and saying something like "Give. Her. Back."

(Scott's balls go up + 15! Scott's intelligence has gone down -3! Scott's rage meter is building!)

A quick flick of the eyes showed Neil at least partially why Scott was looking like an angry Scotsman during the Prohibition. Ramona had been stripped down to her turquoise bra and knickers. Her hands were bound behind her back, and her legs were tied to the chair posts. She would have been causing nosebleeds left, right and centre, but that was offset by the large amount of blood and bruising there was already on her. A gash ran across her head, purple marks lined her arms and stomach, a fair amount of blood was splattered on her ankles, and her upper thigh on her right side was a sickly green colour. She was paler than Neil had ever seen her, her lime green hair (an experiment that Scott bemoaned frequently, but never while she was around) matted with sweat or (Neil thought, with a sickening twist in his gut) blood, looking lifeless for the first time. Mercifully, she seemed to be breathing if the rasping noise from her throat was anything to go by. Neil was unsure, however, if Scott had noticed this.

The man dropped the knife and drew a large, vicious looking pistol from a side holster. He spun towards Scott, the pistol rising up to point, not at Scott, but at Ramona's head. He loaded a shell into the chamber.

**Chk-Chk!**

Scott stopped dead in his tracks. The Delta Force man smirked at the young man. The Commando was built in a similar way to most commandos- 6ft 4, heavy built, face that has been hit one too many times by the Terrorist/dissident/wife.

"Fucking idiot. The only way you're ever gonna see her again is if you come on over and join us in the mess tent for a goodnight fuck. And they wouldn't let some fuckwit like you into the best Special Forces unit in the-"

**BANG-PLSSH!**

Neil started. Scott screamed. Ramona blinked her eyes open.

The commando, on the other hand, was thrown violently back, about 2 metres. His brains managed 7, splattering against the wall like jelly.

"They let you in, dicktard."

Whirling around, Scott finally noticed the sniper rifle wielding man who had risen up from behind the crates, pulling the strap on his rifle until the gun was resting on his back.

"Dan?"

The Landlord picked up the dropped pistol, unloaded it, and then dropped it on the Delta Force's chest.

"If you've got a gun, use it, don't stand there talking arsewipe." He quipped, before turning to Scott.

No longer dressed in casual clothes, Dan was wearing all black army fatigues not dissimilar to the ones worn by the Delta Force men. The difference came in the Beige beret, the absence of Night Vision Goggles, and a badge on the sleeve depicting a sword with wings, with the words, 'Who Dares Wins', written in front. The sniper paused briefly, before pointing to Scott's sword. "Well aren't you gonna use that, then?"

"Huh?"

Dan hit his forehead. "For Christ's sake! We have very little time. Those shot's will have alerted the whole bloody squad, and there's still a good six left. We need to fucking get out of here. Now are you going to cut the ropes, or do you think she's getting off on being tied up?"

Leaving Scott to stare dumbly at him, before rushing over to his girlfriend and beginning to slice the binds off her, Dan turned to look up at the walkway, glaring at the half raised box which Neil was hiding under.

"Either get your arse down here or go back to sucking fat men's dicks for a living," was all the landlord said before turning back to the teen lovers, who were becoming reacquainted with a passion which would have made Kate Winslet and Leonardo Di Caprio blush uncontrollably.

Finally detaching his mouth from Ramona's, Scott's hands moved down from their original position around her shoulders to around her bare waist. "Please tell me you're ok."

Ramona blinked twice, looked down at her body and the bruising upon it, and looked up at his face again, deadpan. "You may be disappointed, dude." Her eyes rolled back slightly, and she fell towards him, collapsing on his chest as he moved his hands in a position to support her- a position that involved placing one hand under her shapely derriere. Ramona twitched once, before settling with a groan, her eyes cracking open slightly as a small grin flitted across her face. "Enjoying the feel, Scott?"

Scott's eyebrow's shot up, his mouth slightly open in shock, as a small grin drew onto his face: the situation forgotten as he simply stood there and absorbed the moment of bliss he had found with Ramona in his arms, looking deeply into her glittering, emerald eyes...

"No, seriously, Scott. It might be time to go."

Scott whirled back to look at Neil, who was pointing out the door. Voices, thumps and the clicking of rifles loading immediately bucked the 25 year old into action.

"Dan! What are we going to do?"

The Soldier was standing next to a side door with a pistol in his hand. "Well, sunshine, while you and punk chick over there were trying to swallow each other's tonsil's, I was planning our escape route." He pushed the door open, made a quick check of the surrounding area, and motioned at the three to come over. "Get your arses in gear, - we need to go!"

(Dan joined the party. Ramona joined the party. Warning! Ramona is critically injured!)

Scott scooped Ramona up in his arms, staggered forward two steps, before gently lowering her again, wincing as he did so. Ramona sighed in annoyance, before dragging him behind her as she ran past Dan. Neil followed, pausing only to grasp the pistol Dan pushed into his hand.

"I'm willing to bet Mr Battlefield 2 noob over there can't hit a target to save his life," growled the Commando, "so you're gonna have to cover me." He grinned, and pushed him through the door. "It's very simple: point and shoot. All there is to it."

(Neil received an M9!)

* * *

Scott, Ramona, Dan and Neil reached the perimeter of the compound without running into a single guard: an achievement which left Neil feeling paranoid. Finally getting outside the base into a small side road, Dan looked left and right, before pulling out a key from his pocket. Grinning manically, he raced over to a skip, beginning to root around inside.

"Well that's just fucking brilliant!" Scott called over to him, "I thought you at least had a plan!"

Dan pulled a lever, and the front of the skip dropped down. Crawling over the top, they could hear the clunk of a door opening, then a muffled curse. Finally, a sleek, silver Aston Martin Rapide rolled down the impromptu ramp.

Ramona's eyes grew impossibly large. Neil's mouth hit the ground and his tongue flopped out. Scott began to drool uncontrollably. And Dan took one look over their shoulders, freaked, and shouted, "Bollocks! They're onto us!"

Two burly men armed with M4 Carbines ran round the corner, the black metal gleaming in the poor light of the dusky morning. Each immediately crouched down and began playing curiously with the front of their weapons, pushing a thick tube into a side vent in a curious, under slung mounted box.

Dan's eyes bugged open. "SHIT!" he swore again, as he pressed a button on the console that opened all four doors at once. (No bazooka's or oil slicks here, folks!) "GET IN!"

The three young adults wasted no time, throwing themselves into the car. Neil grabbed shotgun position, while Ramona and Scott got in the backseats. Dan turned around, deadpanning, "no making out on my seats. Got it?" before pressing his foot hard on the accelerator. The wheels began to smoke, but the car remained in one place.

"What the Hell are you waiting for?" Scott screamed.

"The green light," replied Dan, as he watched the road. Scott turned and saw a set of traffic lights at the end of the road. A young mother of about 19 was pushing a pram across the Zebra crossing, with a bulge from her stomach indicating the continued lack of contraception in her life by the harsh, red glow of the traffic light. The lady crossed the road, just in time for Dan to release the brake and shoot off, gunning the car out of the back alley and into the High Street. Behind him, Scott heard two thumps shake the car slightly, and, as he looked out of the back window, he saw two small crater's blister up in showers of mud and tarmac.

"What the hell where those things?" Ramona gasped, her eyes slightly wider and more alert as the adrenaline started to kick in.

"M203's" Dan replied.

"Noob tubes." Scott added, helpfully.

Ramona looked blank, before Scott elaborated. "They clip onto the base of the barrel of a gun. They're like a Grenade launcher, only smaller."

"You wouldn't call them noob tubes if you were using them." Dan grumbled, "Those things are not to be trifled with. Thank god the most dangerous place to stand in a fight with an American Soldier is on his side!"

"_Okay, e__ven I'm starting to get sick of your abuse, and I'm a metaphysical being of an unknown nature or credence. You really should tone it down..."_

"Have you ever played COD 6?" Dan asked, his eyes raised furiously, squinting at the roof of the car. "I think my comments are more than justified in light of those events. Now shut up and do your job."

"_Fine. Just trying to help you provide for our American Readers..."_

Dan groaned and slapped his face. "Not more fourth wall stuff. I never can understand it..."

"What?" Neil said, looking at Dan's face. "What wall?"

"Never you mind, maple leaf! Now, where the hell is the safe house?"

By now, the industrial district was long gone, and Dan was driving through the suburbs. Large drives and larger cars shot by at 110 miles per hour as Dan recklessly sped round corners and dodged the early risers, eager to get to work at 7:30 in the morning.

"So, what, you're British secret service?" Scott said, his hand on Ramona's shoulders as she dozed on his arm. The long night and the pain had finally dulled her enough to send her to sleep. Or it could have been all the talk about guns. He squinted suspiciously. "Dan's not your real name, is it?"

"No. I'm John Price, ex British SAS. 66th Squadron." The man answered, his eyes focused on the road_._

"So, why the hell are you fighting the American's? I thought you were on the same side?"

Price looked over at Scott, a slightly wan smile on his lips. "You think the President of the United States knows about this? Or the director of the CIA? Or even the commander in chief of the American armed forces? This is all the work of one company: a PMC, if you like, though that's an inaccurate description. Military implies they actually go into combat zones- they're more like private assassins, in a way."

He swerved quickly around a corner. The streetlights flickered off his face, briefly illuminating his reminiscent expression. "But these guys _have_ got ties to certain... rogue elements within the US military. Elements that would be very interesting in utilising miss Flowers here in military operations. Originally, of course, they had a different idea in mind..."

Scott puzzled over this for a few seconds, before his face hardened. "Gideon..."

Price nodded. "Mr Graves's operation did not end with his death, but its programme for the use of subspace suffered severe problems. The bright spark didn't think to tell anyone else how the thing worked, so, of course, the secret died with him. They had to find an alternate pathway. Originally, they were looking at developing some sort of super soldier serum, like in those comic books. A real life Captain America!" Price snorted, "But they couldn't get anywhere. Then, about a month back, they noticed your lass's... abilities."

Scott looked troubled. "Do you think anyone else would want to use Ramona like this?"

The ex special forces man nodded. "You're smarter than you look, aren't you? No-one legal would. trading standards or whatever the Americans have would be on them like a shot: even PMCs have to obey some laws." Price shrugged. "But honestly? There are some groups that would... consider it. After the war two years back, the global military is still desperately trying to sort itself out, and the times ripe for corruption to take root."

He slowed down as he turned onto another street. There was no-one about, but Price kept glancing repeatedly at the mirrors, as if he was on his driving test and the examiner was giving him evils. "They're setting up a joint ops group at the moment, though. SAS and Delta Force. Some kind of 'united front' bullshit. Anyway, the point is, they're gonna take out corruption in an altogether less political way, and they're pulling us old fuckers out of retirement to get on with it." The car slows down to a crawl. Price shakes his head. "I thought I was done with all this shit, but apparently not."

Price finally pulled into a driveway, driving straight into the garage and electronically closing the door behind him. Stepping out of the car, he reached to the wall and pressed the light switch, revealing a stone chamber, with a few mechanic's implements littering the floor, and a toolbox sitting by a fairly bog standard, plastic door on the opposite side.

"We need to get out of here." Price muttered as he opened the door into the house.

"I thought safe houses were supposed to be, you know- safe?" Neil asked, as he followed behind. Scott was trying to remove the seatbelt from around Ramona, who was still snoozing quietly.

Price shrugged. "Nothing's perfect. Especially when you're being chased by ex American special forces goons with the budget of a billion dollar corporation behind them." Reaching for the telephone, Price typed in three numbers and held the receiver to his ear. A few moments passed, before he started talking.

"Beta, Zulu, Alpha, This is Oscar one nine seven. Pass code is Otter. I need an immediate pickup from safe house "Urbana", over." A pause in the talking, before Price responded, angrily, to his unseen backup. "Because, with all due respect sir, I've got a team of Yank commandos right up my arse."

Neil turned away from the gesticulating officer, and ran into Scott, who had resorted to carrying Ramona in his arms as opposed to trying to wake her up. Her head was tucked in-between his chin and his chest, and her scantily clad body was pressing hard against his torso as he struggled to get through the doorway while holding his package.

Finally, he got through the door into a utility room. A washing machine and tumble dryer sat next to a large, American style fridge. Black, laminate flooring ran through to the next room- a medium sized kitchen-diner with a living room air as well. Scott manoeuvred through the next doorway, and rested Ramona down on a comfortable looking brown couch. Spotting a pale blanket lying on the floor, he picked it up and softly tucked it around her. She groaned slightly, and shifted, the bruising causing discomfort. Scott blinked, and turned to Neil, his face a mask of conflicting agony and rage.

"How could they torture her?"

John Price walked into the room. His Barrett had been swapped for a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, which hung around his neck on a shoulder strap. A cigarette was sticking out of his mouth. He stroked his moustache worriedly as he faced the young adults in front of him.

"Command can't get a pickup here. We're gonna have to move her. "

"A pickup?" Scott nervously asked.

Price nodded: "A Merlin'll be landing in a field about 40 minutes from now. We can get them here, but I'd rather not. Too noisy. So we'll meet them outside the city."

Scott looked worried. "Where are you taking her?"

"Her?" Price said, raising an eyebrow. "You're coming too, mate. Can't leave a potential hostage behind."

"What about me?" Neil said.

Two pairs of eyes blinked at him. Ramona slumbered on.

"Anyway," Price continued, ignoring the sulking 20 year old, "we'll take you to Lympstone, drop you off with the Marines, get you a safe house for a couple of months, and then we'll bring you back here."

A pause.

"The UK?"

_(Ramona obtained a new costume!)_

* * *

_30 minutes later... yeah, I know. I had to sit around watching them argue for 10 minutes about leaving Canada, before Ramona woke up, reminded Scott that they could return anytime due to subspace, hit Neil around the head after he complained too much, and forced everyone into the car. Honestly, I need a pay rise. Or even better, a toilet break._

Price sat in the Rapide, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel nervously. The "Field," was actually an old soccer pitch, the dilapidated goals standing forlornly in the night air. The weather had turned for the worst; thick sheets of rain hammered the bodywork. Inside the car, the heating had been turned off in an attempt to prevent the window's becoming frosted with condensation, but the body heat was slowly misting the glass anyway. Neil was sitting next to Price, holding the gifted M9 shakily in two hands. Behind them, Ramona, now dressed in an oversized pair of combat trousers and jacket, was trying to tie an oversized bandana round her head, al là Rambo. Scott, on the other hand, was still dressed in his jacket and jeans combo- and was currently attempting simultaneously sulk and grin at the same time.

"So, we're going in a helicopter to Britain?"

"You'll be stopping off on the Illustrious. The Merlin's gotta refuel. But then, yeah. Straight on to the land of Hope and Glory."

"And how do we know that you aren't just planning to exploit me as well, dude?" Ramona questioned sharply. Her hand reached down for a sword that wasn't there.

Price snorted at this, and reached down into the foot well. "You want a weapon to train on me, lass, you want something that'll hit me if I leg it." Pulling out another M9, he tossed it to the girl, who caught it steadily, a look combining mild irritation and brief surprise wiped on her face.

_(Ramona received an M9)_

"Hey, why don't I get a gun?" Scott said, holding the Power of understanding in his right hand as his left hand reached for Ramona's gun.

"Because I don't trust you." Price said simply, before adding a quick murmur to Neil, opening the car door and sliding out into a crouch, leaving Scott dumbstruck as he crouch walked to the airfield

_More Crouch walking! He MUST be special forces!_

_(Scott's psyche bar went down)_

Ramona took pity on her downtrodden boyfriend, giving him a warm embrace and a lingering kiss on the cheek, before exiting the vehicle after the Sergeant.

Neil offered him a shrug, before following.

* * *

"They're 10 minutes fucking early." Price cursed as the sound of beating blades began to pound the airwaves around the football pitch. He turned back to the three young adults crouching in the rain next to him, "We could be in for a rough time."

"Why? We'll finally get out of this pissing rain!" Scott swore loudly, madly rubbing his hands together in attempt to keep at least some life in them.

Price grimaced. "Bit of cold water never hurt anyone. But an early chopper means something's wrong."

Soon, the hazy shape of the helicopter began to bear down on the field, about 50 feet from where Price was standing. The midsized transport copter landed with a soft thump on the soaked ground, beating rotors gyrating faster than Usain Bolt after an all night vindaloo fest. Price briefly glanced left, then right, his eyes trying to pierce through the thick curtain of precipitation, before scurrying quickly over to the helicopter. A few heated words with a burly looking ginger man holding an M60 in two bowling ball sized hands, and Price was waving them over, a tense look on his face.

Slowly, Ramona, Neil and Scott rose up and began to cross the field. The thick rain was beginning to lessen, the wind dying down. It was this which saved them.

Neil glanced up at the vehicle in front of them. The thick blades were starting to gleam in the sunlight... _'Hang on, there's no sunlight!'_

Neil stopped dead. Ramona stumbled into him. Scott collided into the two of them, forming a collapsed pile on the floor, about 20 feet from their escape plan. And just above their heads, a bullet whirred past.

**BANG-FFWT!**

Price swore. "Snipers! Move, move, move!

The ground erupted in 5 places around the startled trio, as five heavily armed figures emerged from beneath camouflage netting. There was another loud woof as a sniper in some hidden position just missed Price's ear. Bullets whistled through the air, as the SAS men returned fire.

Neil and Ramona began to crawl through the grass towards the Merlin. But for some reason- perhaps heroism, perhaps lack of vision, perhaps just sheer, dumb fate, Scott tried to stand up and run.

Bad choice.

**FFTHWPP!**

"AAAARGH!" Scott went down, blood erupting from a wound in his abdomen- a geyser of red spray shooting over the grass as the unfortunate victim collapsed in pain.

_(It's a Critical Hit!)_

For a few, brief, blissful seconds, Ramona was still, silent, unmoving. A statue on the floor, eyes wide open, unblinking, focused only on Scott's body, lying a few feet from her. Then, with a yell that was part deep despair, part animalistic war cry, she threw herself over the body, and commenced a bodyguard protection manoeuvre that achieved nothing practically, but managed to make the moment feel desperately touching: covering his body with hers, and beginning to sob.

_...She does know that he's unlikely to die, right... Right? Author guy? He's going to live, isn't he...?_

_Author guy?_

Neil had reached the helicopter by now, and was being hustled on board by a dark skinned man holding an assault rifle. The SAS had succeeded in taking down one of the Delta force squad- assisted by the fact that Price and the Burly marine had cover, while the PMC squad were wide open, and relying on surprise to catch out the SAS. But now, their objective was out in open cover, and it didn't look like she'd be moving.

"Shit." The beefy man with the LMG cursed, "Could she not bring him over here first? Cover me!"

"Roger that, Cube." Price returned, slotting a fresh clip into his MP5. He pushed himself from the cover of the entrance hatch, and double tapped the second American in the head. The final three responded, with a hail of fire that ripped through the cabin, nearly taking the African medic's head clean off as he looked Neil over for bullet wounds. Price pulled back into cover, wincing.

The big guy bellowed, before charging towards the last three, his machine gun whirring as hot streams of lead roared out. All the Delta force men were good, but even they couldn't last against the storm of bullets that chewed through them. They collapsed on to the ground.

_(Triple Kill. +75)_

Cube wasted no time on celebrations. He raced towards the prone man and the sobbing woman.

"Scott? SCOTT! Say something!" Ramona murmured thickly, through tears.

Scott coughed dryly, before replying. "CHRIST that hurt!"

Ramona blinked. Then she punched him.

"OWW!"

"Stupid idiot! Standing up when people are shooting at us! Dude, do you ever think?"

She raised her fist to punch again, but her eyes caught sight of the hole in his abdomen, and she dropped her hand to his chest.

Suddenly, Scott was being lifted into the air, and thrown over someone's shoulder. Cube looked to his left, and was met with the sight of Scott's jean covered bottom. "Don't fucking fart, mate."

The trio hustled over to the copter. There, the medic was already cleaning a scalpel and slipping on some latex gloves, in case the bullet had not cleanly gone through Scott.

"You are a real idiot, you know that?" Price said to the wounded man as the medic pulled him to a stretcher. Any reply was stifled by the bullet which rang through the cabin. Price looked up to see about seven more US commando's jump out of a Ford Transit which had just pulled up. "Shit. I'll lose these guys, you fuckers get the hell out of here."

"Wait, what!" Neil shouted, as Price vaulted out the other side of the copter and began running for the Aston Martin. "Like hell I'm going to Britain! I DON'T EVEN LIKE TEA!" clumsily, he lunged out after him, racing to catch up with the sergeant.

"How could anyone not like tea?" Cube looked at the Medic, startled, as the helicopter started to rise.

The medic shrugged back, before returning to his patient. Beside him, Ramona looked nervously down, her hand clutching Scott's.

Cube snorted. "Right. Concentrating. Got it." He turned to the pilot, and shouted over the whine of the engine, "Get us out of here!"

* * *

Price wrenched open the driver's door, and sat down. Bullet's whistled around the car, a few even smacking into the body work. John winced at that. Then, he drew his pistol from the holster at breakneck speed, pointing it at Neil, who had just opened the passenger door.

"PLEASE DON'T SHOOT ME!" Neil shouted as he threw himself inside, reaching for the seatbelt.

Price breathed out, trying desperately to slow his breathing in preparation for the next job as he refocused on the car. Slamming the key into the ignition, he revved the engine up, before letting go with an almighty screech and barrelling towards the Ford Escort on the opposite side of the field, passing underneath the landing struts of the Merlin as it took off. Neil tugged on his sleeve, nervously.

"Errm, Price? That's towards the bullets."

Price nodded, gritting his teeth.

"Hold on."

Neil ducked down. Bullets whistled around the car, into the grill, and finally, two shot through the top of the windscreen, missing Price's head by millimetres. Price laughed, a look combining relief and hellish joy spreading along his face and spun the car to the left.

The Delta force weren't ready for that. They had reacted remarkably quickly when Price had turned towards them, putting their forces to the left of the oncoming car, so as to get a better shot at the driver. However, in the heat of battle, they had forgotten something. Price was BRITISH. Therefore, his car was RIGHT hand drive, not left. To get a good shot at his pursuers: who, as Americans, all drove LEFT hand drive cars; he would turn to the left, not the right, straight INTO the Delta Force combatants. And, there lay another problem for the Americans.

It was here that Neil realised what Prices earlier muttered comment of, "Leave the ignition on, mate." was for. None of the commando's could get a clear enough shot at Price. This was due to the frosted up glass, which was THICK with condensation, thanks to the cold, Canadian winter air meeting the heated glass of the Rapide's windows. Price, meanwhile, could not only drive into the commando's he as now facing, but also get off a couple of shots at the two men still remaining in the truck, by lowering down his window, now completely out of sight of the commando's weaponry.

However, Price did not open fire. Instead, he pulled out two grenades, popped the pin, and threw them through the backdoors of the van the Americans were holed up in. Then, after smacking one American in the legs with the front of his car, taking out another by opening his door into him as he drove past, and slowing down enough to allow Neil to shoot a third one in the leg, (he was aiming for the head, but this was his first shot fired, and the wild turn had left him feeling slightly nauseous) Price roared off, ignoring the chattering fire that rang out through the air behind him.

Neil looked back. "Didn't you throw some grenades bef..."

**BOOOMMM!**

The van exploded into a fireball of Steel, Glass and remains of American commando.

_(Double kill. +50)_

Neil ducked back down.

Price grinned wolfishly, and gunned the engine, shooting the car off towards the inner city.

The last two remaining commandos slowly rose back up, before one, the stripes on his sleeve demonstrating his higher rank, reached for an ear mike.

And way up above, a burly Scotsman in a helicopter lit a pipe, turned back to the cockpit and murmured, "Get the lassie home, boys."

* * *

(10 months later)

_Someone please get me out of this box. I've been in here for 11 fucking months and there's no toilet. The place smells like Peter Mandelson's collective sewage (well, all the shit he spouts has to end up somewhere) and they just push meal s through a cat flap now..._

(Scott has recovered 94 hit points!

Neil has received 200 XP points.

Neil has asked Stacey out!

Stacey is now in a relationship with Neil )

"Seriously, we've been going out for 2 months now, and you've only just put it on your facebook page?" Neil gasped, turning slightly pale.

Stacey raised an eyebrow. "That bothers you?"

"No, No, Not at all!" Neil replied, extremely bothered by this fact.

Stacey sweat dropped at Neil's reaction, before turning back to her laptop. "I swear, you're becoming more and more like my brother every day..."

Neil's eyes lit up, and he looked at her, looking immensely pleased. "Really?" then he paused, looking slightly worried. "You don't have seven evil exes, do you?"

Stacey paused, and looked out the window, contemplating. "Now that you mention it..."

Neil fainted. Stacey rolled her eyes. "You are such a nerd." She glanced at her watch as she typed out another line of her status. Looking back at her boyfriend, she sighed. "Oh, get up. You're being pathetic. Scott's coming home today, and you're going to miss it. In fact, he should be getting here any minute now..."

A Pause.

"Now."

And another.

"For Christ's sake, no..."

FFWOOM!

A door shot out of nowhere, and opened to reveal Scott holding Ramona close to him. Both stepped through the threshold, and the door closed behind them, before fading with an equally loud sound.

"Alright, bro." Stacey said, not taking her eyes away from the typing.

"Nice to see you too, sis." Scott replied, receiving a thwack from his girlfriend.

"SCOTT!" Neil beamed, as he came to, and bounded towards him. He tried to leap at both of them, but Scott held his arm out, stopping him.

"Hey, mate, be careful. She's delicate, alright."

Neil looked utterly perplexed at this. Ramona sighed, and muttered something about not being made of glass. This caused Neil to look at her, and really notice her for the first time.

Notice her, and the conspicuous bump around her stomach area.

A curiously large bump.

Neil fainted again.

Stacey looked up at this, and saw Ramona's bump too. Her eyes, for the first time in a long time, grew wider, and she looked at Scott half angrily, half decidedly curious, before uttering lowly, calmly, and possibly menacingly, "and how, exactly, are you planning on explaining this to mum?"

Scott, wincing, guided Ramona to a sofa, and sat her down, planting a kiss on her forehead and receiving one on the lips afterward. Reaching over for a half finished bottle of San Miguel, he took a long swig, gasped out and muttered, "I wish you hadn't mentioned that..."

* * *

_Yes, fucking fantastic. Ramona's pregnant, Neil's with the girl of his dreams, the evil corporations of evilness are beaten, Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah. Now will SOMEONE please get me out of this box? I haven't had a bath for weeks, the floor looks like an accident at a chocolate factory, and the door is blocked by pizza boxes. I NEED FRESH AIR..._

"Errm... mate." Price said, holding a pint of bombardier ale in the warm comfort of a British pub around 10000 miles away in England. "If there's a door, why don't you just go through it."

"_...Well now someone fucking tells me."_


End file.
